A spiral staircase at the east end of the house led to the observatory containing the powerful equatorial telescope through which, as opportunity offered, Mr. Meyer was wont to gaze thoughtfully at the satellites of Jupiter, the canals on Mars, and other eccentricities of the heavens.
There was, of course, a fountain—between the bowling green and the cypress trees. There was also a sundial bearing a sentence of cryptic import; and in the woods, at the least expected places, stood marble columns, broken and ivy-wreathed, or supporting busts of Socrates, Pallas, Homer, and other appropriate notabilities.
Inside the house were treasures that had cost the ransom of a millionaire.
Meyer was a bachelor, and here he spent his week-ends, absorbing ozone enough to see him through till the following Saturday, and maturing Titanic schemes for the Federation of the World and the confounding of rival financiers.
Once only had he brought a guest with him—an African Pro-Consul—who had with much difficulty, though with ultimate success, joined his outward-bound ship from Meyer's electric launch.
Each year a local mayor called, admired, wondered, and retired. Occasionally some venturesome tourist was captured and turned back. Other visitors were rare; and their reception depended on the mood of the lord of the island.
One day last April a stranger with a camera rowed across from England. At the landing-stage he informed the man in charge that he had business with Mr. Meyer. This was telephoned to the house.
"What business?" came the reply.
"Particular business," said the newcomer.